late in the evening

There are two kinds of grandparents in the world, those who encourage you to explore basements and attics, and those who don't. From this starting point we can discern a lot about our grandmas and grandpas.

I have vivid memories of tireless excavations in the damp depths of my grandparent's cellar. I can nearly taste the sour smell of those old National Geographic and Life magazines. Everything in that basement (and that enchanting crawlspace) was tired and wet and soggy with the weight of years. The air was stale and sharp like vinegar, but oh so inviting! Down there I uncovered enough tiny instruments to fill a small museum. Down there were doodads fashioned for such highly specific tasks as extinguishing candles and serving individual poached eggs, pursuits which we've long since streamlined or simply forgotten about.

I think my greatest fear in life is never finding that same basic but fantastic sense of wonderment. Is it possible to be nostalgic for a time we never lived through? I think so. At least I know I did then, when costume jewelry and retro bed sheets reminded me of something just below the surface of my memory. That basement on Jefferson Street now belongs to some other people. I wonder what kind of grandparents they'll be.